The Joker's Revenge
by Whisperwill
Summary: Post-Dark Knight. Guess who's out of prison? And he's after Commissioner Gordon's son.
1. Escaped Convict

**Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, Batman, or anything else in this story, actually. And I'm not stealing any $$ by writing this fanfic, so Batman doesn't need to come after me in the dead of night.**

**A/N: Originally started back in January of '09. The horizontal bars represent "scene change." Please review if you read! I welcome critique, compliments, and even insults! I'm not an easily insulted person, unless you insult my family or my God. **

**Rated T for crime and violence.**

**The Joker's Revenge**

Jim Gordon stood by his bedroom window, taking solace in the embrace of his beloved wife. He—yes, even _he_, police commissioner of all of Gotham—needed her comfort right now: he didn't know if he could bear another day on the job without it. He didn't know if he could bear another day on the job even with it. A single tear slid down his cheek. What would he be asked to do tomorrow? Destroy the Tumbler, or, as it was starting to be called, the Batmobile?

"He saved my son's life," he whispered in Barbara's ear. His voice broke as he continued, "And how do I repay him?"

"Batman knows what's best for Gotham," she murmured consolingly.

"I destroyed the Bat Signal and turned a murderer into a knight in shining armor. Now I'm leading a manhunt for Gotham's _true_ hero."

"Batman _asked_ you to do all those things," she was quick to point out. Before Jim could answer, he heard the creaking of a floorboard. He glanced up to see what he'd known he would: James Gordon, Jr., was standing uncertainly at the door.

"Jimmy, honey, you should be in bed," Barbara chided him, crossing the room to stand next to her son. "You have school tomorrow."

The boy ducked his head in apology and said in a low voice, "Sorry, Mom. I wanted to say good night." Barbara smiled and bent down to kiss him on the cheek.

"All right, now, say good night to your father and then straight to bed." Jim squatted down as his son hurried across the room. He wrapped his arms around the boy who was the apple of his eye.

"Good night, son."

"Good night." Jimmy smiled and added in a whisper, "And don't worry, Daddy. Batman won't be mad at you. He can take it." Jim ruffled the thatch of blond hair on his son's head and gave him a light push toward the door. As Jimmy left, Police Commissioner Gordon muttered, "I just don't know if _I_ can."

* * *

Elsewhere in Gotham, nefarious things were afoot. A truck labeled "Arkham Mental Institution" had come to a stop in front of a red light. The fact that the vehicle was alone at the intersection was unusual in a city as large as Gotham, even at three o'clock in the morning. The red light turned green with barely a moment's hesitation. Engine growling, the truck started to move forward.

A hand poked out from the shadows of a nearby alley and tossed a smoking grenade underneath the vehicle. The little bomb clinked once against the pavement. It detonated before the second bounce. In a roar of flame and shrapnel, the trailer was separated from the truck's front end and thrown backwards. It skidded a good twenty yards before slowing to a stop.

Out of the smoke a man emerged. He stepped from the trailer as though nothing had happened and began to dust off his tailored violet suit. When he had finished, he gave each of his black leather gloves a tug at the wrist to tweak them back into place. After that, he rumpled his green hair just so. His hand moved to stroke his face, which was so strikingly devoid of make-up. Still stroking distractedly, he made his way up the street.

* * *

"Commissioner Gordon? I have some very bad news."

Jim Gordon took in the pale, drawn face of the police officer who'd been speaking and reached automatically for his cup of coffee.

"And it's only six in the morning, too," he commented dryly. "Doesn't the Gotham underworld ever sleep?"

"Sir, the Joker has escaped custody," the officer said in a rush. Jim choked on his latest swallow of the potent caffeine drink.

"How?" he asked hoarsely.

"A group of doctors from Arkham lobbied successfully to have him attend psychiatry classes there. One of their trucks came to pick him up, but it was blown apart at the intersection of 13th Avenue and Olive Street. The driver is dead."

Gordon slammed his coffee cup down on the desk. "Get me to that intersection now!" he barked. "I'll head a team of investigators to track down evidence. Where was the Joker last sighted?"

"We have two witnesses that claim he robbed a nearby store. One of them was the clerk on duty; the other said the Joker used him as a hostage."

"With what weapons?" Jim asked skeptically.

"As their story goes, he used a piece of broken glass—held it against the man's throat. He made off with a set of four kitchen knives, a handgun, twenty-eight decks of cards, and a make-up kit."

Even the strange shopping list didn't cause Jim to miss a beat. "Put all units on the alert," he ordered tersely. "Send out an APB. The Joker won't be loose for long."


	2. Not an Ordinary School Day

Gotham Elementary School, located in the center of the greatest city on earth, was a well-known place. In fact, it was famous for its "glowing" statistics. The percentage of the student body that graduated with honors stood at 24%—higher than any other school in the city—and few students had even been caught carrying concealed weapons. The product of a board of idealistic directors, the school harked back to the good old days of the three R's. But to the students of Gotham Elementary, the school was the same as any other: a place where they were obliged to stay seven hours a day, five days a week, and cram a bunch of meaningless junk into their skulls.

Jim Gordon, Jr., had been among the early arrivals to the classroom. For ten minutes he had amused himself by staring at the walls, which were hung with maps, arithmetic charts, giant alphabet flash cards, and various art projects. Kids continued to straggle in right up until the bell rang; but oddly enough, their teacher still hadn't arrived. The children began to fidget and glance at one another uncertainly. Finally, five minutes after the class was due to begin, a man entered the room.

There was a slight, quickly-stifled groan from the class at the sight of their unwelcome substitute teacher.

"What a dork!" Jimmy's friend Paul whispered to him. Jimmy wasn't so quick to insult the man, but inwardly he had to agree. With a long, tan trenchcoat, black leather gloves, and a thick face scarf nearly touching the brim of his fedora, the newcomer was dressed in blatant disregard of the Indian summer weather outside. Jimmy couldn't even see his face as he passed by.

The man walked up to the chalkboard and said, almost lazily, "Good morning, class, I will be your substitute teacher for the day." As he pulled his scarf off, one of the girls near the back raised her hand and called hesitantly, "Excuse me, sir? Where's Miss Rosenhaal?"

"She couldn't come in today," the substitute teacher replied calmly without turning around. He was taking off his hat now. Jim let out an almost inaudible gasp. The man's hair was green.

"Nice hair job," Paul muttered sarcastically in his ear. Jimmy sat frozen, his heart racing. Everyone in the room was still mired gloomily in the Monday blues; couldn't they see what was going on?

Paul's eyes glinted with mischief, and he pulled a straw surreptitiously out of his desk. Jimmy watched, jaw agape, as his best friend tore a bit of paper from his notebook, popped it into his mouth, and began to chew. The substitute teacher was slipping his coat off.

"Ready, aim. . ." Paul whispered, bringing the straw to his lips.

"_No!"_ Jimmy hissed frantically. His hand shot out to snatch the straw away at the last moment. Paul turned to glare at him furiously. All Jimmy could do was flick his eyes pointedly toward the front of the room. The teacher had removed his coat and was finally turning around.

His face, that of a warped circus clown, shocked any children that were still whispering into silence. After about five seconds, his eyebrows shot up in mild surprise.

"You all look as though you've seen a ghost." His tongue darted out, briefly, to lick the side of his mouth. "Is this how you greet your substitute teacher?"

Immediately the class, anxious to please their manic teacher, burst out, "Good morning, Mister—" and, after faltering momentarily, about half of them finished rather lamely, "—Joker." The Joker said nothing more for the moment as he held them transfixed with his gaze. Jimmy found himself staring at the make-up on the man's face. He wondered why such a well-known criminal, who must have all kinds of lackeys at his command, didn't take the time to apply his face paint more carefully.

Then the Joker swung his head to the left to study the class's star chart. Miss Rosenhaal had pinned a sheet of bright red poster board to the wall with all the students' names written on it. Stretching out horizontally after each name was a line of stars. She awarded them stars for good behavior, courtesy displayed in the classroom, and academic excellence. Jimmy was in third place, but the last thing he wanted was for their substitute teacher to notice.

That gave him an idea. While the Joker had his eyes on the star chart, maybe he wouldn't notice if Jimmy slipped out of class. He put one foot out into the aisle and began to stand up slowly, holding his breath. Reaching behind him, he felt for the doorknob. When his hand touched it, he began to rotate his wrist carefully.

Then the Joker, without turning his head to look at Jimmy, pulled a gun out of his inside chest pocket and leveled it at the boy's head.

"Do you have a hall pass?" he asked reproachfully, while cocking the firing lever into position with a click. Jimmy swallowed hard and eased back into his seat. It didn't matter, anyway—the door was locked. The "teacher" must have done it when he'd come in. There was a small measure of comfort, at least, when the gun was laid carefully on the teacher's desk by its owner.

"Let's begin with . . . roll call." The Joker had an odd habit of pausing in the middle of his sentences, Jimmy noted. Maybe the man really _was_ crazy, as everyone said he was.

"Paul Singer?" the Joker called. Paul was on the top of the list. He wasn't the most well-behaved kid out there, but he got tons of stars for his numerous A's. Jimmy sneaked a panicked glance at his friend as the silence stretched out. Paul didn't seem to have the courage to answer. Desperately, Jimmy punched him in the shoulder as hard as he could. Paul let out a yelp of pain, but to Jimmy's relief, he managed to recover his wits enough to stammer quickly, "H-here, sir."

"Grace Johnson?" the Joker continued. He hadn't taken his eyes off the chart for some time now. A girl on the far side of the room squeaked,

"Here, sir."

Jimmy's heart pounded painfully in his throat. His name was next, and he didn't like the look of the smile on the Joker's face.

"Ah, yes . . . Jimmy Gordon—whose _daddy_ is the police commissioner of the entire city of Gotham." He took his eyes from the chart at last to give the students his full attention. "Oh, Jim-my, where aaare you?" he sang out, like a child in a game of hide-and-seek. Jimmy would have given anything to be somewhere else, or at least to be able to look away from that hideous face. But he couldn't, even as he choked out,

"Here, sir."

The Joker's eyes lit up in a fearsome way. "Come up here, Jim."

Jimmy shot Paul one last, hopeless glance. Then he stood up, feeling light-headed as he did so. His feet dragged while he made his way, as slowly as possible, toward Gotham's Public Enemy No. 1.

"Come on, come on, come on; don't be shy," the Joker urged, speaking more quickly now. "I just wanna ask you a few questions, test your know-how, that sort of thing." Jimmy came to a stop, as close to the man as he dared. His breathing, already fast and shallow, increased as the Joker laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't get stage fright, now—your classmates and I are all rooting for you." The Joker's voice was soothing; his tone only served to frighten Jimmy more. He shrank back against the desk as the gloved hand rubbed his shoulder in what might have been a comforting way, under different circumstances.

"Now, tell me—how many students are in your class, Jim?" the Joker asked slowly. Jimmy heard himself answer automatically, his voice unsteady, "Thirty."

"Good!" the Joker praised him in a bright voice. "One question right. That's one star." He took the sheet of them from the desk, peeled one away, and stuck it next to Jimmy's name on the chart. "Now," he continued, picking up the gun once more and studying it casually, "I have six bullets. I fire them into the class. What is the probability that I will hit Paul?"

Jimmy bit his lip helplessly, at a loss as to how to solve the macabre story problem. He had heard of probability, but it was something the older kids studied. His class hadn't covered it yet.

"Sir?" came a voice from the back of the room. It was Paul, his face pale, his hand held high in the air. The Joker's eyes narrowed, but he nodded, giving the boy permission to speak. Paul stated in a clear voice, "You have six bullets. There are thirty students in the class. The probability that you will hit me is six over thirty, or one in five. Unless you're assuming that Jimmy won't be sitting next to me—if he weren't, the probability of hitting me would be one in twenty-nine, which isn't reducible." Paul's brilliant solving of the story problem regarding his probable death was given amazingly calmly. The Joker grinned and swept over to him, his coat-tails fluttering. He grabbed Paul's chin in his hand and reached into his inside coat pocket again. Paul let out a moan of terror, but the Joker shushed him in a half-consoling, half-impatient way. And out of the inner reaches of the violet coat came . . . a blue Magic Marker. The Joker pulled off the cap with his teeth, scribbled on Paul's cheek for a moment, and stepped back to appraise his artwork. Jimmy let out a shaky breath of relief. A single, crooked star now adorned the side of Paul's face.

"One question right—one star," the Joker whispered into the hushed classroom. He stalked back to the front of the room, once more ignoring Paul, who looked as though he might be sick.

"I'm sure you've all seen those races on TV—the ones with all the horses," the Joker remarked, "and they don't start until they hear the gunshot." He picked up his gun from the desk for the second time. Jimmy licked his dry lips nervously. Wherever the Joker was going with this, it probably wouldn't be pretty.

"So here's what I want you to do," the Joker announced. Pointing his gun at the ceiling, he

continued, "When you hear the gun go off, scream. All of you, at the top of your lungs . . . bloody murder. Ready?" There was a collection of silent, scared nods from the students. _Click_, went the gun as the trigger was cocked to fire. Jimmy gulped.

"Three, two, one. . ." the Joker ticked off, sounding almost bored. Then, in a quick flash of movement, his arm came down to train the gun on Paul. _Bang_.

And the bullet hit its target. And the class screamed. But none of them screamed as loudly as Jimmy. He kept screaming, sobbing, oblivious to everything except the blood trickling from his friend, who was doubled over his desk with pain.

After nodding with approval at the class's reaction to the chaos he'd caused, the Joker pulled a card from his pocket with a flourish and propped it in the chalk tray. The gun he threw against a nearby window with such force that the pane shattered. It was an easy matter for him to drag the police commissioner's son to the window by his arm, scoop him up haphazardly, and make a dramatic exit through the window. Even with the boy in his arms, he made the two-story drop and subsequent landing on the pavement with practiced ease. Jim Gordon, Jr., offered no resistance as he was shoved into the trunk of a nondescript car like a sack of groceries. The Joker slammed the lid shut, got into the car, and turned the keys which were already in the ignition. The car hummed to life and pulled into the streets, merging smoothly with the flow of traffic. No one gave the vehicle a second glance.


End file.
